


reach out and touch someone

by youcallitwinter



Category: Glee
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 05:30:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/719411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcallitwinter/pseuds/youcallitwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>See, here's the thing about him: he carries the metaphor through. And he knows enough to be able to tell when it turns back into a simile. An almost. No longer something definite, but <i>like</i> something definite. — In which Rachel is insecure, Blaine's jealous and Sebastian is...Sebastian. Rachel/Sebastian. Rachel/Blaine. Sebastian/Blaine. estb. Blaine/Kurt. Complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	reach out and touch someone

**Author's Note:**

> you guys, WHAT IS THIS, WHY DOES IT EXIST? The only excuse I have is that I've been really ill the past week and spent four days watching glee from where I'd left off (which, why D:) -- from beginning s2 or something. And the rest three, lying down in bed and writing ~11k of Sebastian/Rachel. In my defence, Grant Gustin is ridic hot. And then Blaine decided he didn't want to be left out cuz he's really hot too. So he basically took over my 4k fic and now it's...this. also, in general, kurt/blaine was kind of adorable. and jesse st. james is still the best thing about the show, even when he only appears in, like, one episode. st. berry is still the best thing you'll never have. And I've come to the conclusion that jesse/rachel/sebastian/blaine is my ship. that is all.
> 
> Things to know, I tried to keep this canon as far as possible, but Finchel (which is like ALL OF S3) is kind of hard to get around, so. also, angst angst angst since everything is either one-sided or implied. and sebastian is an entitled bastard, basically. (which is kind of what i like about him /issues)
> 
> Pre season 4

The thing about Paris is—

It’s  _Paris_. For one. Not one of the sad Midwestern states that no self-respecting map would bother covering, with their inexperienced, trumped-up show-choirs that know as much about performance and show-biz as they do about twelfth century Middle English poetry.

But also, he knew who he was in Paris. The hot guy with the coffee that always had a shot of Courvoisier in it. And that was the extent of the definition Paris needed.

But here, it’s like he’s marking days off a calendar where every day he picks up a new label and pastes it across his head so everyone can  _know_ and be  _comfortable_ or whatever.

In a short colloquialism: Ohio blows.

  
  
  
  
  
  


He first decides that maybe Ohio doesn’t blow just quite as much as he’d initially thought during  _Uptown Girl_.

Not that it isn’t still tragically high on the overall suck-fest, but Blaine Anderson somehow manages to pull it a degree below the Bermuda Triangle on levels of suckage.

The way he sees it: Anderson isn’t hard on the eyes. The opposite, actually. He’s kind of the male equivalent of that girl in movies who doesn’t know how hot she is, which, apparently makes her hotter by default or something.

He sings the entire song to him, which is a mixed message technically, because if anything,  _he’d_  be the male version of  _Uptown Girl_ in this scenario. But occasionally he’s willing to settle.

Just occasionally, though.

  
  
  
  
  
  


“Hey sexy, where’s the charity case boyfriend today?”

The midget, whom he’d initially ignored because a) not a looker and b) like he said, midget, not exactly in his line of vision, which he’s grateful for, because, check ‘a’, looks particularly irritated, “Dalton uniform, meerkat smirk, and wanna-be Disney Prince hair. If you are who I think you are, then Kurt described you rather admirably, I must say.”

“Oh, I see,” he claps his hand in mock approval, “Kurt wasn’t available so you decided to bring a little sunshine into the day of another McKinley charity case. Blaine, I must say, you’re all heart, with the amount of community service you put in every week.”

She blinks rapidly, obviously trying to think of an appropriately cutting come-back. Fails. “I am  _not_ a charity case.”

He gives her the Manhattan once-over, slowly working his way up to the tightly buttoned sweater of an indiscriminate mustard color that somebody probably paid her to take off their hands, “with that nose? Good luck.”

“This is Sebastian, Rachel," Blaine interrupts hastily, "Sebastian, Rachel Berry. And  _Kurt_  is practicing for his Officer Krupke role, so I bought my Maria out for coffee instead."

They smile widely at each other over the cups. It's sickly sweet. And he's pretty sure the aggregate of virginity in the square feet area might actually be catching if he stops by too long.

"Berry," he says, thoughtfully, like he doesn't know her Broadway artiste inspiration, favorite musical, details of fraught relationship with Shelby Corcoran and preferred morning cereal; he's Sebastian Smythe, scoping out the competition is like his daytime job, "any relation to the diminutive, sad fruit that hangs in a lonely bush with innumerable others like it?"

Her mouth hangs open in outrage, and when he walks away, he doesn't have to work too hard on the swagger.  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Afterwards (and by ‘afterwards’ he means long afterwards, as in ‘after the Rock Salt Fiasco’ afterwards, as it is popularly known in Warbler circles by now), she sends him a letter.

Like. An actual fucking letter. On paper. In red ink.

It's hand-delivered by some guy from McKinley who's apparently a friend of Trent's, which, more than anything, proves how far Dalton has fallen in the social hierarchy.

_Smythe_

_Since you've taken to cravenly compensating for your tonal and possible other, easily conceivable, physical inadequacies by blinding and/or slushie-ing New Direction members, I think it's time you met the_ real _competition._

_Rachel Berry_

Her self-absorption and ridiculously high self-opinion is legendary among Ohio show-choirs. And he's obviously pissed her off enough to warrant a first-hand taste of it. Like she thinks he would be more intimidated by the starry-eyed child with delusions of grandeur, than he was by the Lima Heights cautionary case-in-waiting.

He thumbs the smooth metaphorical gold star sticker next to her name, before crumpling the paper and throwing it into the wastebasket.

Yeah, right.

  
  
  
  
  
  


So.

He goes, of course. Even though he can think of seventeen things off the top of his head that he'd rather be doing. But he still goes, because she basically insulted his vocal abilities, his manliness, his pride and his honor all at once. Half of them by the sheer audacity of her choosing to hold the duet in a club in the Dalton locality. Which signified either her attempt to prevent her school-crowd from seeing her make a fool of herself yet another time.

Or, if he knows anything about Rachel Berry – and he  _does_ , he has folders, power-points, facts, figures, weaknesses, strengths— to mock him on his own turf.

Which demands satisfaction or retribution. He's not particular.

(This is what he’ll remember later: staring down heatedly into dark eyes as she brushes her hair away from her face. And cherry chapstick. He'll remember cherry chapstick. He’s guessing it was cherry because he’s not exactly familiar with preferred flavor of the female population. But if he had to hazard a guess through taste, then, yeah.

There was a song too, he knows, logically speaking. But on his tongue, definitely cherry. When he thinks about it, he thinks it’s odd that the facts, figures and power-points omitted to mention that.)

  
  
  
  
  
  
Actually, it lasts all of two seconds. It's more reflex than anything, curiosity, if you will.

It isn't the first time he's felt this; he felt pretty much the same after his Michael number with the lesbian Latina. It's the occupational hazard of really getting into a scene and having to get out of it. But he do it then because she was, well, into women. He has an excellent gaydar. She was also undoubtedly predisposed to rearrange his face if he made any moves, but that's neither here nor there.  
  
This is different, he knows. Because Shaqueera, the  _Smooth Criminal_ girl, had been stunning, but she’d also been completely in control all the time. In control of her voice, in control of her movements; crossing her legs just  _so_ , leaning in just  _that much_  closer for the scene to be viscerally appealing, but Rachel, Rachel is—  
  
—open. Completely vulnerable.  
  
And he thinks something dramatic about how nobody else will ever be able to touch her completely. Not even in a bed, with her legs spread wide, welcoming. Not like he did in two seconds in front of an audience. Because nobody will really be able to touch her unless she’s singing. So obviously she’s dating the half-witted quarterback she’s had most solos with, and as long as they’re singing together, she’ll never know she’s not really in love.  
  
It’s a shame the guy she’s chosen has a vocal range somewhere south of average. And by south, he means polar levels. Jesse St. James would agree, he’s sure.  
  
"Ew," she groans, scrunching her face and stepping back, still not far enough, "god,  _gross_."  
  
But the underlying huskiness turns her words to sweetness and he's not exactly hearing what she's saying. He listens to the spread of color across her skin instead. It's louder, for one.  
  
From their table Gay-Face, her inexplicable choice for moral support, calls out her name with an appropriate level of outrage. He grins widely, theatrically, as she walks over and Porcelain Skin grabs her hand and whispers furiously, glaring shiny rainbow-colored daggers in the shape of unicorn horns at him all the while.  
  
When she turns around, eyes reluctantly drawn to his part of the stage despite herself, he winks at her suggestively, with all the subtlety of Jeff trying to hit on a girl (Warbler code for none), watching in amusement as she hurriedly turns away, pulling her coat tighter, while the Hummel kid gets even more scandalized if possible.  
  
See, it's not exactly sexual-identity existential crisis mode in his head because what he's come to realize through the years is this: everything is secondary to the stage.  
  
This is how it goes: she doesn't question him, doesn't ask the  _why_  and the  _how_  or mention how it's totally  _inappropriate_  or  _unacceptable_  or tell him to never touch her again or threaten to take out a restraining order or warn him that her boyfriend is the quarterback. Because she, more than any other person,  _knows_. Knows that part of being a performer is the gut-instinct.  
  
Expressing in the moment. No matter what the consequences.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


They do this sometimes. All the time, actually. The parties probably started out as a war-cry against repressive institutional authority and transformed into regularly scheduled orgy sessions within the hallowed halls of his alma mater. It’s revolutionary enough to get zero attention from the staff who couldn’t care less, since there are no teen pregnancy scares to be had this side of the walls.

He sometimes thinks nobody in this school gets irony except him.

“You were good out there, man,” Jeff tells him, drunkenly clapping him on the back, “even with that Rachel chick who’s, like, the best in this district. Everyone knows the only reason McKinley's glee club has even a shot at regionals is because of her. Her and Blaine.”

He smiles. Sort of. Because Jeff's wrong on both count. New Directions works because of its island of misfit toys appeal, with everyone contributing an equal amount of loser gene to form a cohesive whole.  
  
And, he wasn't  _good_. He was fucking  _epic_. Even if he can't exactly recall the song. But he knows he was epic regardless. He always is.

It’s like this: the Warbler's don't like him much. Or, at all. And after the Blaine incident, he’s pretty much the secret Public Enemy Number One with a bullet. But, even when they think he's a kind of a dick (which, he is), they put up with him. Because he's the captain (and gay  _and_  hot, which is never an unwelcome addition to an all boy's academy). And he knows: winning is everything. Rachel Berry would understand. But also, because they know if he left for Carmel High, they'd probably not make it past sectionals. That is, if they managed to make it  _to_ sectionals without the do-or-die mentorship that he provides.

And he stays because— because. Call it loyalty. Or something.

  
  
  
  
  
  


The next time he sees her at the Lima Bean, it goes something like this:

“I don’t see how calling me Barbra is supposed to be slighting in the least. Unless you’re unsure as to what the word means.”

She’s on the offensive obviously, because it saves energy on the exhaustive soul-searching of 'why are you at my table'. He’s a fan of it.

"Actually, it kind of is. Barbra Streisand sucks,” he says, the juvenile insult falling easily from his lips. And if she'd been fully able in mind and body, she'd have remembered that he isn't Finn and doesn't have the vocabulary of a mentally challenged Dora the Explorer has-been.

But she doesn't realize it, obviously, because an insult to her idol is an insult to her whole existence, and it robs her of all functions, her motor control dissolving into a mixture of rage and borderline insanity. It makes her skin flush with anger, her chest heaving with the force of telling him in precise, six syllabled words where exactly he can shove his non-existent musical talent, monotonously wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue to beat the dryness of her throat that the incoherent rush of words inevitably lead to.

He spends a lot of time making her angry, he’s starting to realize. He also spends a lot of the subsequent time looking at her mouth. Which—

— well, fuck.

  
  
  
  
  


  
(See, here’s the part he always seems to miss:

‘No matter what the consequences’ apparently  _actually_  involves  _consequences_.)

  
  
  
  
  
  


_Sebastian_

_My house. Monday. Ten. I know you know where my house is because I got that Slushie delivery that you had so innovatively paid the Pizza Place counter-guy to deliver and ‘trip’ while delivering. But this is an armistice, so to speak. A white flag. A cease-fire. And other similar sentiments in the same peace-keeping mode. Hope to see you there!_

_Rachel Berry_

It’s like a language that he vaguely knows. He can make out the signs and symbols, but every time he puts them together it becomes an incoherent mess.

If he bothered to think about it at all, he’d think that was kind of fitting.  
  
  
  
  
  


In the history of no good, very bad, terrible ideas—

“Excuse me,” Princess Hummel drags out, “but what is  _he_ doing here?”

Curiosity, he knows, killed the cat. And he’s starting to wonder just exactly how many damn lives he has left.

“I know you all have questions,” she flounces around in a ridiculous pink dress that he wants to take off because of its crimes against humanity, almost as much as he just wants to take it off, “but just bear with me a while. I promise in due course of time they shall be answered to your satisfaction.”

The Oscar Room or whatever the hell she called it is the lamest thing that he’s ever seen and that’s saying something since he’s personally acquainted with Rachel Berry, so he has newer, higher standards of lame. He leans against the table and pretends Blaine isn’t staring daggers at him. Taking out someone’s eye tends to have that effect on them.

This is  _not_ happening.

“After the Karofsky incident, I have decided that our enmity is potentially dangerous, and because I love you," she looks at Hummel and Blaine, "and wouldn't  _not_  give you a sip of water if you were dying of thirst— note the double negative, as signification of an affirmative as according to basic grammatical rules," she says, turning to him, "so I think you guys should kiss and make-up. Not…  _literally_  kiss, of course. That would be— maybe a hug would suffice in establishing cordial relations henceforth."

It starts again, that heaving in the pit of his stomach whenever he thinks of Karofsky.  _Just stay in the closet, buddy._ Every single time. Over and over and over. He's so. Sorry. He's so so sorry.

Gay-Face stares at her blankly, "you want me to  _hug him_? As in boyfriend-stealing, best-friend-kissing, all round jerk, smarmy, smirking,  _Sebastian Smythe_?"

"As awestricken as I am by your alliterative skills, Kurt," Rachel says, placating, "think about it this way—he didn't actually steal your boyfriend, did he? You and Blaine emerged even stronger after the ordeal."

Hummel refuses to be drawn into the verbal trap, "As much as I appreciate your militant NATO-like peace efforts, no can do, Rach. Besides, I don't feel any enmity towards him now that we've beaten him soundly at Regionals."

"That's exactly the sort of attitude I'm talking about," Rachel exclaims, "what if he can't take it and tries something...fatal."

"Wasn't planning on it," he says dryly from his position, "although I disclaim responsibility for the mediocrity of the rest of the Warblers. It's not my fault I had to step in mid-way because of an unexpected defection in the middle of the year and didn’t get a fair chance to make something of them."

Blaine glowers at him. It’s becoming a fun diversion to figure out how many expressions of the same kind he can induce on his face.

More than there are synonyms, if he's got the count right.

"Oh." Rachel looks disappointed, "I had alcohol and everything to celebrate our new joint treaty towards a healthier, more civil relationship. Nothing strong, of course, because my dads, liberal they are, tend to be more old-fashioned with regard to the virtue of their only daughter. But it seems as if the whole evening has been a waste of effort."

The thing is, even all the while, a part of him knows that if he says it then there’d be no going back. But he says it anyway, because—

Just, because.

"And this has nothing to do with wanting to get drunk enough to be able to kiss me again and keep the drunkenness as a failsafe response for all further queries?"

He knows he's right when she blushes a bright red. He knows Blaine knows he's right when his free hand— the one Hummel is not possessively holding to make his ownership clear— clenches into a fist.

It'd be an amusing tableau if he wasn't the one more in danger of the consequences than she is.

"I may have thought about it, I admit," she draws out, staring determinedly at a point behind his head, "once or twice. But I can assure you this night was planned in the spirit of Broadway camaraderie and any… untoward thoughts that I may have had in the private recesses of my mind are nobody’s concern, especially since—”

“You want to kiss him?” Hummel looks green in the face, “ _Sebastian Smythe?_ We need to have a serious BFF talk  _right now_.”

“Of course she doesn’t want to kiss him, that's ridiculous” Blaine interrupts. He looks frozen in place.

She avoids all their glances, moving around, frantically dusting spotless trophies, “It’s not—”

“You can’t just make it a  _thing_ ,” Kurt says, shrilly, “to kiss gay guys and then try and start a relationship with them every time Finn breaks up with you. As a one-way ticket to your self-esteem issues so that when you’re rejected, it’s inevitably what you expect would have happened anyway. Rachel, you’re  _better_ than this.”

He catches a glimpse of her face as she bends down, using her hair to curtain her face, lower lip trembling.

His first thought is something along the lines of  _ouch_.  _Who knew the drag queen had it in him._ His second thought is: guys. As in plural.

Maybe it’s just that at any given time when they’re in the room together, he spends a significant amount of time looking at Blaine that he can tell when Blaine spends a significant amount of time not looking at someone else.

 _—_ oh.

“I think you should leave,” Blaine says stonily, without bothering to turn around.

He shrugs, “I have early lacrosse practice anyway. So, as much fun as this hasn’t been—”

“What do you need to hear,” he can hear Kurt asking gently, as he walks away, “that Sebastian’s a hundred percent gay? The same things Blaine had to say? Rachel, don’t do that to yourself. And Sebastian wouldn’t spare you the heartache like Blaine did.”

The door closes behind him.

  
  
  
  
  
  


_What a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive._

It’s hung up on the graffiti board, along with the various creative insults that Daltoners can claim patents to. He has no idea who said it, but he can’t imagine it matters either way.

  
  
  
  
  
  
The only surprising thing about it would have been if it were surprising in the least.

"Stay away from her."

He looks up from his newspaper and half-smiles in the way he knows is most infuriating, tilting his coffee mug in silent acknowledgment, "hello to you too, gorgeous."

Blaine looks slightly disconcerted. Obviously he'd expected something else. Maybe an 'I don't know what you're talking about', a clear-cut denial. He's obviously never really met Sebastian Smythe.

"I mean it," he says finally, shoving his hands in his pockets, "if you want to play mind-games, do it with someone who knows the rules."

"Are we," he primly wipes his mouth, taking his time, enjoying Blaine's fidgeting, "talking about Rachel Berry? And just a ‘by the way’, really missing the eye-patch, made you look totally rakish. Fuckable."

Hey, who knows, maybe that’s a ‘sorry’ in some language he’s not familiar with.

"Don't pretend innocence, Sebastian, it doesn't go with the rest of your persona," Blaine says, unsurprisingly ignoring the latter half of his statement, irritation breaking up his syllables into longer words that obviously don’t say as much as the other boy would want them to.

Except, of course, the thing about being a persona instead of a person is that he gets to change the rules whenever he wants. Be whoever he wants in the space of a few words.

"And what about Rachel Berry?" he asks, dragging it out as long as he can. Something else to know about him: he’s good. He’s good because he’s had years of practice. It’s not only talent that counts.

"You  _know_  what," Blaine manages to get out through clenched teeth, “don't...kiss her. She's not— she doesn't just let it slide or forget about it. She’ll overthink and come to all the wrong conclusions. And you're  _gay_."

He  _tsk_ s in mock disappointment, strings the moment along, “I’d have expected better than cheap marketing labels from you.”

“It’s not labeling,” Blaine says quietly and he knows there’s a moment where neither of them is quite sure who exactly is at the end of his pathetic attempt at being convincing, “it’s the truth. And Rachel doesn’t deserve that.”

"A bit hypocritical, don't you think?” he leans back further, tilting his chair till he can squarely meet Blaine’s gaze, “coming from you, I mean.”

He knows. Obviously. He’s always been observant; it’s kind of a basic requirement for figuring out how best to exploit weaknesses in competitors. And here all he really needed were eyes. Which he has a fine, working pair of.

"Which is why," Blaine rubs his forehead tiredly. Like he'd thought this would be easier. The mediocrity of the public school life must really be affecting him, "I  _know_  what it's like to kiss Rachel Berry. Like—"

He stops abruptly, inadvertently catching his gaze before dropping it. And Blaine might think like he just saved a slip-up, but truth is, he never needed that sentence completed.

He knows what it's like to kiss Rachel Berry too.

"Well," he says, carefully, “a) you're not her brother, even though you've started dressing like her male-counterpart and possibly pushing cutting-edge gay community fashion back to the B.C. period of the Gregorian calendar. And b) you already have a boyfriend. So really failing to see the 'how is it any of your business' side of this conversation to be honest.”

"This has nothing to do with Kurt," Blaine flares up immediately, predictably.

And for a moment they’re staring at each other and it’s something—

— else. Something else.

"…except that she's his best friend and he'd hate to see her hurt. Which makes it my business."

Picking up cues from half-formed thoughts and inadvertent mistakes. He's performer enough to be able to applaud that. Even in someone else who is decidedly inferior to him in the department.

"And what  _is_  it exactly that she is to you?" he inquires, politely, clearing his throat to increase the insidiousness. The thing is: sometimes, he does this.

"A friend," Blaine replies, far too hurriedly for it to sound completely unrehearsed. The guy's dreamy as all hell and has a serious sex-voice, but he definitely isn't going to win any Oscars alongside the future Tony's anytime soon.

“You and I could be doing the kissing thing instead you know.” he runs his tongue across his lips in proficient lasciviousness, “if the alternate scenario bothers you so much. I won’t tell. Promise.”

Blaine looks flustered at the about turn, it's a little amusing, but mostly just hot, "just— stay away, okay." he says, finally. It’s probably a full-circle right there. A little neat circle with no space for her to slip through the cracks like she so easily does these days.

He goes back to the newspaper, "I hadn't thought about it at all but now that you've mentioned it, I can't seem to  _unthink_  it. Especially," he raises his eyes to meet the former Warbler's, "especially since your jealousy is totally going to make it worth my while."

"I'm not jealous," Blaine insists, laughing off the suggestion, backing away, volume making up for lack of conviction. Ringing almost as true as his own  _haven't thought about it at all._ Blaine probably knows he's lying, just as much as he knows Blaine is. So, when he thinks about it, this— whatever  _this_ is—is a little pointless.

Rachel Berry tends to do that, he’s beginning to realize, enter perfectly coordinated, established routines that practically have  _Anti Rachel Berry_ scrawled across them and somehow make them  _all about her._ This is something he didn’t learn from his competition-stake-out missions.

But they'll go through with it, Blaine and him, with gamefaces on, because they're performers after all.

There's a reputation to keep and nobody’s called curtain yet.

  
  
  
  
  
  


The thing is: it's never been girls. Not ever.

Legend goes that he came out of the womb with a background choir, synchronizing perfectly, and hitting on the guy in the next crib. But it isn’t like he hasn’t done more than his fair share of fooling around. Figuring how girl-parts work, before eventually leading up to the big neon reveal, because— well, mostly because he's a bastard that way.

But also because he's artist enough to appreciate the dramatic possibilities of the final dénouements. The soliloquizing. The build up to it in a crescendo of tears and ultimately, heartbreak. Neither of them his, obviously.

The point being, it's never been girls. And if it had to be, in the most dire situation where it was the end of the world and he needed to repopulate to make sure another generation would be blessed by his excellent genetic make-up, or...or, every guy in the world decided to hold off sex, like the women in that Greek play they're doing in English class (which isn't the only thing messed up about it); it'd be someone like Santana. Someone who's pretty much a female him. Even if she happens to have a significantly lower bitch-factor than she probably thinks. Or maybe— that blonde, ex-cheerleading captain with the legs and the chest— Quinn or whatever— the main thrust of his argument being that  _if_  girls, he'd have his pick of the ones at the top.

Because he's not only smart and wildly attractive, he can also sing and dance like John Travolta vs. two point oh (new and improved). He could have the exotic kinds; the pomegranates and the star-fruits, and there’s no way he’d go berry-picking with that kind of playing field available.

See, here's the thing about him: he carries the metaphor through. And he knows enough to be able to tell when it turns back into a simile. An almost. No longer something definite, but  _like_ something definite.

That's almost a metaphor.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Turns out he doesn’t even need to make the first move on whatever gameplan it is that’s giving Blaine Anderson sleepless nights, because the next week she’s in the Lima Bean, glancing his way with the regularity of a clockwork automaton, and all the while pretending to be deeply engrossed in the menu.

So maybe the terrible acting isn’t just a Blaine thing; maybe it’s more of a public school thing. A common disease in a place where it’s okay to be...well, common.

He’s not being elitist, he’s being honest. There’s a difference. And while he’s being honest he has full right to roll his eyes at the hideous schoolgirl plaid skirt and ruffled librarian shirt. It’s like she goes out of her way to prove how unsexy it’s possible to make a typical fetish costume.

He doesn’t go up to her. Obviously.

More importantly, she doesn’t come up to him.

Which, it’s not unexpected, exactly. It’s just— strange. A wrong note in the harmony that is all the more obvious for the harmonizing. Like he’s adding up over and over and coming up with a calculation that stops just a little short of her.

Maybe she didn’t come in here for him is the closest he’ll get to it. It’s sort of like losing, part bitter and part salt. He doesn’t like the taste.

But then she’s back the next day.

And the next.

And the day after that.

And—

He gets up.

See, it’s not as if he gives in first, because that’s like saying there’s something to give in to.

  
  
  
  
  
  


“Well, well,” he begins, walking over, as she quickly looks away, burying her face in the menu, till her nose almost touches plastic, “if it isn’t young Barbra Streisand. We really need to stop meeting like this. Especially considering that you were never in here at all until you met me. Which, by simple association, renders these frequent excursions rather suspect, and would lead someone doing the math to believe there’s a definitive correlation between the two.”

He can almost see her trying to decide between the truth and the lie she’s probably practiced in front of the mirror in her princess-pad. Rachel Berry is nothing if not transparent.

She settles for a compromise between the two, “Blaine asked me to not see you again,” she informs him, haughtily.

 _A friend_ , he remembers, Blaine had never precisely defined what friendship exactly meant in his vocabulary of course, “so of course you chose the one place where you’re absolutely certain to find me to avoid me.”

She drops the menu, slightly flustered, “it’s not— it’s— Blaine doesn’t get to tell me what to do, actually.”

“Oh,” he drags the word out, curling his tongue around it till it is more than it is, “so, this is you  _rebelling_.”

He can see her consider that for a moment, probably trying to decide the soundtrack and appropriate costume for the role if she takes it on. Possibly involving clothes in the James Dean tradition. The most rebellious thing she’s probably ever done is wake up late and miss her morning work-out.

Except for drunkenly kissing her best-friend’s gay crush of course. That probably figures in there somewhere.

(It just: he hasn't thought about it before. But now it's Blaine and Rachel in his head, making-out with the kind of frenzy that underlies their performances. He wonders if she gets the same crease of intense concentration between her forehead like she does when she's trying to invent soundtracks for her moments.

He doesn't actually know anything about them that can't be quantified into statistics, and he's guessing more than anything, but it's—

hot.)

“He thinks you’re playing mind-games with me,” she says, interrupting his thought process, looking up at him, unconsciously wide-eyed in a way that reveals her inexperience in the department, “and that, that’s what the kiss— if you can call it that— was. A mind game.”

“And,” he stops because he genuinely wants to know and he has to wait the feeling to pass before he completes the sentence. Regardless of whatever  _The Secret_ might want to fool unsuspecting morons into believing, the  _real_  trick is to never want anything enough, “you don’t think it’s true.”

“It’s not that I don’t think you’re capable of it,” she sniffs contemptuously, presumably to let him know that nothing he could do would surprise her, probably including making international headlines for holding a gun to the President’s head, “it’s  _you_. Psyching out the opposition through a detailed seduction strategy is exactly the sort of low-down, slimy thing I’d expect from the guy trying to break up the world’s most adorable couple, next to Finn and I, of course.”

“So,” he laces his hands at the top of the chair opposite her, deliberately drawing her attention, “you came here to— what? Be a willing pawn in this nefarious seduction plan? Save Blaine and Ladyfinger’s Epic Romance by willingly sacrificing yourself on the altar of my interest in Blaine. A distraction, if you will.”

It takes her a moment to tear her eyes away from his hands and he’s pleased. He doesn’t know why, because he’s not the one here notorious for overthinking. But he knows this: he’s pleased. “Of course not. I’m just astounded at the unsubstantiated claim that I’d  _fall_  for any mind-games that you may choose to play. I’m a star performer; I am trained in skillfully ignoring any attempts at mental sabotage and emotional manipulation by the competition, or even fellow teammates. I have been egged by a guy who I thought I was in love with, and recently been left yet another time for the blonde Abercrombie and Fitch catalogue-esque model who is closer to a John Hughes movie cliché than an actual person. Nothing can penetrate the steel-reinforced rib-cage enclosing my heart now. Definitely not your childish games.”

“So basically, in the Cliffs Notes version of your severe issues, Frankenteen broke up with you again for the hot, teen pregnancy poster-child,” he gleans from the monologue. Somewhere along the way, he became fluent in Berry-speak. It’s a frightening thought.

“Only temporarily,” she hastens to add, slamming the menu down with unnecessary force to emphasize her point. And he thinks something bizarre like  _please, just_. “Till Finn realizes once more that our star-cross’d love transcends generations and has the passion to inspire a best-selling Broadway musical, not to mention innumerable rip-offs. And he owes the world a happy ending. Especially since  _Romeo and Juliet_ and  _West Side Story,_ the musical rendition it inspired, have already played out the tragic, tear-jerking, Sondheim-lyricized finales and made them redundant.”

This is where he falters: he stares at her for a beat longer than absolutely necessary.

It’s a mistake, the first time, and three seconds later it’s a part of the act— Stanislavski would appreciate the method— as he then continues even longer when it visibly makes her uncomfortable, the shredded napkin testament to her confusion.

She doesn’t know half of it.

“Besides,” she continues stoically, when it’s obvious he isn’t going to say anything and he knows she has to say something to not allow the moment to be anything other than exactly what she needs it to be, “there’s also that you’re gay.”

It’s the slight hesitation on the first letter of the word that tells him it’s probably a little further on the question scale than the statement scale, which is presumably what she’d been intending to go for.  _She’ll overthink and come to all the wrong conclusions._

Blaine  _does_ look good with the eye-patch, that wasn’t a lie. It’s hard to tell with him, sometimes, but that definitely wasn’t a lie.

“Yeah,” he says, easily, instead, “there’s that.” Things she probably doesn’t have notes on him about as he does on her: his ease is practiced, just like everything else about him.

She nods and she isn’t looking up at him anymore, which says more than anything she yet has and there’s something close to panic at the back of his throat, and he swallows hard and—

— It’s gone. Almost.

“Yeah,” she echoes.

So apparently: he’s not only fluent in her language, he’s fluent in  _her_. Which is fucking terrifying, if he’s being honest.

It’s a good thing he rarely is.

  
  
  
  
  


She doesn't come again the entire week.

He's not waiting anyway. Obviously.

 

 

 

 

 _Don't do this._  
  
is Blaine's cryptic text to him, a week later. And since he wasn't going to do anything more offensive than watch the NFL match on television, he's guessing this is about something else. Someone else.

Which probably means Blaine somehow found out about the unauthorized meeting last week where the most exciting thing that actually happened was a fictional make-out session in his head not involving him.

God, he needs to get laid.

(And wow, Rachel Berry's actually found a way of making clandestinity lame. Like, really, there should be an award.)

So anyway, what he knows about human psychology begins and ends with this— reverse. Always.

Here's what he hadn't thought of doing till he was told not to:

He scrolls past the various 'R's and reaches her name. The button feels smooth under his hand as he presses. Like a gold star on paper.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_Who is this_ , she texts back immediately, it's not like she has a life (this is again one of those not-mean-but-honest things; he has documentation and statistics, no case of defamation would hold water in a court of law, and anyway his dad is a State's Attorney, so),  _and how do you know what I'm wearing?! I’ll have you know my dads are very protective and have a lot of high-up connections in the Ohio State Police Department._

He doesn't obviously. Know what she's wearing, that is;  _you look so sexy in blue right now_  had been a hit-or-miss try, based only upon the observation that she favored the color, at least in clothes. Which is insulting to the color. Obviously, he'd hit.

And anyway, it was most definitely a lie. Her 'blue' article of clothing under dispute was probably a blue-cape she'd stolen out of her grandmother's cupboard or something. It's  _Rachel Berry,_ she doesn't do sexy.

(How 'Rachel Berry is the dictionary definition of unsexy' became a lie is this: he was lying across his bed, and she was wearing the blue cape from her grandmother's cupboard, but she was also leaning against his dressing table and looking at him with dark, inviting eyes and—

he woke up, tangled in his sheets, hard.

And in the shower, his hand was Blaine's head wrapped around his cock. And when he looks up, she’s standing there, her eyes fixed on Blaine’s head and—

that’s all it takes.

Neither of which happened, if you ask him. And since it's his story, that's the gospel truth.)

 _Sebastian Smythe_ , he texts instead, ignoring the second part.  _You know, the guy you're finding innovative ways to try and kiss._  
  
She doesn't text for a long time and he puts his phone off-vibration so checking it constantly wouldn't be moronic and indicative of anything that it’s not indicative of.  
  
(So basically, what he is these days isn't gay, what he is is a  _girl_. Just, fuck.)  
  
 _I should have guessed,_  she texts finally, and he waits ten minutes before opening it because he  _can_ ; Sebastian Smythe, ladies and gentlemen.  _When I started getting all those messages for a nose-job and Bathroom Singers Anonymous and vocal lessons for people who Think They Can Sing But Make The Cat Want To Drown Itself. Or the pornographic pictures of male celebrities over the age of 85._  
  
Oh, oops. He'd forgotten about all that. He's had her number ever since he'd taken on the Warbler's of course. He doesn't do things half-assedly. And he may or may not have taken a few liberties of the sort.  
  
 _Oh come on_ , he protests,  _that wasn't pornography, that was erotica. There's a difference._  
  
 _I know there's a diff_ ; the shortened words probably signify her outrage at having her intellectual capabilities bought into question,  _between porn and erotica. Although you obviously don't._  
  
There’s a beat where he’s not going to do it, because then it’s— more. It’s more.  
  
He does it anyway.  
  
 _Litmus test,_ he texts back,  _pornography or erotica? Your answer will either qualify or undermine your claims, so, careful there, Berry._  
  
The attachment takes a long time to load. Truth is, he didn't even remember having the picture taken, although it was probably during one of the Dalton parties by some horny guy he had sex with. It isn't completely inappropriate, even if it's the angle is a little lower than common standards, and it's obvious he isn't wearing anything. Still, chest and hip-bones in the 21st century probably equate to Victorian gowns.  
  
He stares at the  _sent message_  signal for a beat. He definitely went into sexting territory there. Oh, well. There’s no blame here, since all he's really doing in evening out the playing field. It's tilted towards her to the extent that he can't hold on to his side, as desperately as he wants to. He keeps sliding off.  
  
He switches off his phone. She won't reply, he knows.  
  
(She'll still  _have_ it though, even if she doesn't acknowledge it. And at the back of his head, that's almost like winning.  
  
 _What,_ of course,is the part he hasn't yet figured out.)  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


When he wakes up, he has a text from her.

 _Please_ ,  _I live in a testosterone encased cage about five days a week in glee club. It takes a lot more than a half-nude picture to impress me._

See, the irritating thing here is: he thought he had her figured out. All the nights of research and stake-outs  _meant_ something.

And then she does this— texts when he’s convinced she wouldn’t— and it’s like… like she’s escaping. From the numbers and papers.  
  
Like the exact number of trophies she’s won and the ballet instructor she frequents; facts that he has written down in black and white in a drawer against his bed, can’t contain the tilt of her head anymore.  
  
She’s becoming. More. She’s becoming more.  
  
Maybe if he was in Paris, he’d appreciate the poetry. But here, it basically sucks. Possibly more than all of Ohio.  
  
 _Meet me at the Lima Bean_  is all he says.  
  
Here’s something among the growing list of things he’s starting to figure out about himself: he’s an idiot.  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
“I’m not here because you asked me to come,” are the first words out of her mouth, tumbling over each other like she might forget her lines if she waits too long.

“Of course not,” he allows, “why are you here?”

She stops short, like she hadn’t thought he’d ask anything beyond her initial negative explanation.

“Because I want chai,” she says firmly. He doesn’t mention the fact that she missed her curtain call and that her statement implies she drove forty-five minutes to sip chai alone because he has no answers to the  _why_ ’s himself and anyone who knows him can agree on this: he cuts his losses.

“And I know why you’re doing this,” she says determinedly, staring somewhere slightly to the left.

(And it hits him then— she doesn't look him in the eyes.

Like, ever.

It's one of those things he's never quite noticed because he's always been busy looking over the top of her head. Sure, he can out-sing her, but a little physical intimidation never really hurts.

But now that he  _has_  noticed, it's like...like he can't unnotice it. Because it's just right there in front of him, pointedly not looking at him.

He licks his lip and tastes cherry. It burns his throat.)

“Why,” he asks, instead. Standard. He always goes for the standard stuff.

Her lips curve in a pleased grin at apparently having figured him out. (He wonders if she has notes on his like he does on her. The thought makes his stomach clench.) “Because you want to make Blaine jealous.” she pulls out triumphantly.

For a moment, it’s all white noise rushing past his head, “you think Blaine would be jealous of me?”

Because she can’t know. Or maybe she does. Maybe it’s just as obvious to all of them, caught in their sad, pathetic lives, as it is to him. Something to not talk about. Let it fill the air a little more.  
  


But she’s then looking at him, or at least to the side of his head, like words— even in her extensive vocabulary, she’d be sure to add— can’t describe how much of a moron she thinks he is, and something at the back of his mind calms, like this is the new normal, “Obviously not, Blaine is  _gay_. But you think he'll be jealous of me and realize he didn't know how much he liked you till he sees you've moved on. I've read all the issues of  _Cosmo_  since its inception, I know about these underhand relationships tactics, all right. And since I’m the only person you’ve frequently seen around him apart from Kurt and Kurt loathes you as much as the Montagues and Capulets did each other, so you’re probably thinking that if you hang around me— and Blaine does seem rather protective, maybe because I was one of the first people to unreservedly accept him at McKinley and am, even now his boyfriend’s best friend— then Blaine will realize what he’s lost.”

Oh, of course.

(Here’s what he  _does_ know about her, even though it wasn’t written down: she doesn’t think it’s her, ever.)  
  
“But your nefarious schemes will not see the light of the day, for I can assure you that Blaine and Kurt are as much in love as ever.”  
  
Speak of the—  
  
“What. The hell. Is  _wrong with you_.”  
  
Now  _that_. Is hot.  
  
He turns his head around, plastering a smirk on his face. It’s getting harder to do these days, strangely enough. Like he’s playing so many parts at once that he’s starting to burn out or something. Mixing roles, emotions, cues. Feeling all the wrong things at all the wrong moments.

“You’re going to have to be more specific,” he stretches his legs in a calculated, suggestive gesture for maximum impact. He always does.

Blaine glares down at him, “I thought I told you to stay away from her.”

“You don’t get to tell him that,” Rachel protests, putting her cup down, the liquid sloshing around the sides a little. That would be metaphorical, if he could just figure out what it’s a metaphor for, “but,” she turns around, “I do. So stay away from me.”

“I didn’t force you to come,” he points out reasonably. He’s totally being reasonable here, even if his head is pounding and he wants to do— something. He just doesn’t know what. But something.

“Yes, well,” she leans forward, her hair covering her face, “I only came to tell you I won’t be coming.”

He raises an eyebrow at her, and she flushes more, if possible.

“Why are you sending her naked pictures,” Blaine asks grimly, and this, right now,  _this_ is the guy he’d wanted. In the bow-ties and ridiculous vests, the possibility of this guy beneath the bashful, schoolboy exterior.

“Blaine!” Rachel squeaks.

“Oh, come on,” he shurgs dismissively, “It wasn’t a  _naked_ picture. You couldn’t even see my—”

“ _Sebastian_!” her face is bright red with embarrassment, and—

(just for a nanosecond, he wonders if she looked like that when she saw it. Flushed. Heated.)

“I was just furthering an academic discussion. And how do you know anyway, have you started tapping her phone?”

Blaine turns to her at that, “you know I would never do that,” he says, quietly, “I came across it accidentally when you asked me to add the  _Evita_ list to your phone.”

(Eva Perón is her dream role. It’s not surprising he knows this. It’s surprising he remembers this.)

“I would’ve thought you’d tell me something like that yourself.” Blaine continues. He sounds. Hurt. Blaine sounds hurt.

It’s odd, the tone. Like the meaning isn’t in the sentence. Like it’s suspended somewhere in between where she won’t get at it. Like every third letter of every word taken together would add up more clearly to what he’s saying than what he’s actually saying. Sebastian should know, he probably wrote the code book.

She fists her hair in her hands but doesn’t tie it, and it’s obvious she’s just doing it to give her hands something to do. “I know, I just— Finn—” she stops tiredly, looking up, obviously willing Blaine to understand.

“I know,” Blaine says gently, “but Rachel, Sebastian’s  _gay_.”

 _So are you_ , he doesn’t say.

She smiles tightly, pushing her chair back, “well, two of the three guys I’ve kissed in the past year are gay, and the third left me for a girl who can jump higher. I should really be looking into a sex-change operation right about now, I think.”

They watch her walk away.

(He does that a lot, he’s starting to realize, watch while she walks away.)

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


(Blaine turns to leave.

“You’re not a method actor.” the warmth of the cup seeps through his fingers

The other Warbler—once a Warbler etc.— laughs, “is that the best insult you can come up with?”

“Merely an observation,” he shrugs. “But you were brilliant as Tony.”

Blaine grips the edge of the table, guarded, “how is that related to anything?”

“You don’t,” listen closely; this is important, “draw on experiences to recreate emotions. You don’t have method. But you were brilliant as Tony because you didn’t  _need_  any experience to draw on.”

He watches the other boy’s eyes hood, “I don’t know what you mean.”

He does.

Maybe he could make a hobby of this, he thinks, watching them walk away. Officially add it to his repertoire since he does so much of it anyway.

Blaine turns around at the door, “don’t break her heart.”

He raises his cup in silent acknowledgement, “no promises.”

This is what he says. What he means is: he’d like to think he  _could_. Because that would mean he had enough of it to be able to.)

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 _You're projecting_ , he texts.

He doesn’t know what he means exactly, but it sounds grand enough, cryptic enough to mean anything or nothing, so.

She doesn't text back.

(Every time he licks his lips, the taste of cherry and Blaine’s face permanently at the back of his eyelids so every time he blinks it’s— annoying. It’s annoying. Like he missed the cue somehow and now he’s just always going to be half a beat out of sync no matter how hard he tries.)

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He recognizes her voice before he even sets a foot in the bar.

She’s belting a  _Top 40_ at the top of her lungs, dancing provocatively in front of an audience that probably appreciates the singing more than the dancing.

He doesn’t.

Not that he…doesn’t, but he might just appreciate both equally. And he resents her for it, because he thought he’d gotten past the confusion years ago.  _Labeled_ and finished with it. Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt.

“You bought her to a gay bar to get drunk?” he says by way of greeting.

Blaine looks at him from the counter without much interest or surprise, “only place I could think of where she wouldn’t get carded.”

 _Or get hit on._  He adds to himself, because it’s like he has a running monologue in his head whenever it’s the three of them. There’s what they say, there’s what they don’t say and there’s the rated images in his head and his head trying not to explode.

“Sebastian!” she exclaims suddenly, obviously having spotted him, “this song for my good friend Sebastian. Not…good friend. Because we may or may not intensely dislike each other and he may or may not be trying to seduce me to make my gay best friend’s boyfriend jealous, but— for Sebastian.”

She jumps around in an affected rendition of  _I kissed a girl,_ which is…metaphorically appropriate, he’s guessing.

Blaine turns back to his drink and snorts, “isn’t that fitting.”

Obviously the boy is more drunk than he’d initially thought if he’s filling in the gaps himself. It’s an odd silence that follows, sort of... conclusive. Final.

“Where’s  _Kurt_ ,” he asks, because he’s a bastard. That’s usually explanation enough for about ninety percent of his actions.

He’s also realized he doesn’t need any creative nicknames for  _Kurt_ , because he’s mastered the art of making the name itself sound like an insult.

Blaine’s gripping his glass tighter than necessary, “he wanted me to take Rachel out. He didn’t come because he had a good audition and he didn’t want her to feel like the binge drinking was a pity party. God, I love that guy so much.”

(— he’s never been in love. He’s sung about it like he knows what it means, sure, but that’s about it. And apparently it’s horrific and exhausting and soul-destroying if the songs he sings are suitable authority.

He’s never been in love with  _one_ person; he can’t imagine what it’d be like being in love with two.)

She’s at the counter a few minutes later, glowing with the sound of drunken applause and shouts that ring from around the bar, “totally makes up for choking in the NYADA audition,” she says, happily, signaling for another drink, and he has this totally lame moment where he thinks he’s going to tell the bartender not to give her any more. But the feeling passes.

He’s already gone off-script far too many times, and he’s not going to allow her another victory she doesn’t even know she’s taking.

“You choked in your NYADA audition?”

It’s just that— he knows about it of course, like he said, day job. What it means to her.

“Yup,” she pops the ‘p’, “song I’ve been singing all my life too. But it’s fate. Sam had it right. Stripping and bars are where it’s at. NYADA can take that. Thank you, Blaine, for showing me the light. It’s bright and shiny like a gold star, like me, because I’m a star— hey, did you know that the most number of NASA arto—astronomes are from Ohio? That’s where I live. Thank you.”

She leans down to sloppily kiss Blaine on the side of his mouth. To his credit the guy doesn’t miss a beat, doesn’t _accidentally_  turn around. Somewhere along the line, Sebastian thinks he may have gained method.

And if he drinks about three shots in quick succession, and can’t stop his hands completely from trembling, then that’s an excusable rookie mistake, really.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It’s raining when they step outside, and he’s holding both of them up on either side and seriously, what the hell _happened_  to him. When did he become this guy?

Blaine obviously either doesn’t understand the term ‘designated driver’ or is too exhausted to care or meant to call someone at the appropriate time. All of which are equally viable and redundant.

"I'm sad," she says softly, against his shoulder, "want water."

And inexplicably, she sticks out her tongue, closing her eyes, letting the rain-water down her throat and halting their progress. And inexplicably, he lets her.

She’s shivering by the time he gets her in the car, carefully leaning her head against the window.

“I have a spare shirt in the trunk,” he offers.

“No,” says Blaine, immediately, slurring the word slightly.

His mouth half curves, “I’m not propositioning— this is my Good Samaritan face.”

“I want,” says Rachel simply, raising her head, before it drops down hard against the window, making him wince.

She always wants, he knows. Everything. And no  _Rolling Stones_  song can convince her that she doesn't deserve it. And it's probably infectious, or something, because when she's around, he wants too. Like maybe he was wrong all this while. Like maybe, the trick  _is_  to always want everything too much.

He stares at her in the rearview mirror because, hey, so he’s been downgraded from the role of the main villain apparently, but he’s still not the  _hero_ here.

She slips the wet shirt off, with an air of self-consciousness that pretends it's not; because she’s drunk, but mostly _hey they’re gay, nothing to see here, move along folks_.

He's not totally unaccustomed to the square feet increase in the comfort zone in the department of physical intimacy when girls find out he's gay. If they knew the number of girls he's seen without their shirts, or even bras, straight guys would be donning Zelda Fitzgerald hair and singing showtunes in less time than it'd take to say 'rainbow'.

Because he's gay. He's  _safe_.

Because then they can slip off their wet shirts and know he won't be staring at the water-droplets falling off their skin or the golden-starred pattern of their bra or the water sliding down the valley between her breast, or the dark slash of her hair sticking to pale skin. Know he won't be half-hard with just the thought, the  _possibility_. And that he definitely won't be running his hands over his cock, over his jeans. Won't be desperately thinking  _she won't see_  and _she won't know_  and  _fuck, just, please_. He's in the passenger seat, facing the wall, away from the light of the window. It's dark enough, so he could just—

He pulls his hand away, the muscles in his stomach clenching with unsatisfied want. He won't do it. Not like this. He has some honor. And sure, it's tattered and torn and rusty with lack of use and, at the moment, probably lying somewhere in a bloody mess at her feet, getting soaked by the water that she's shaking out of her hair.

But it's there. Barely. But there.

He realizes he's dropped the common noun halfway through that thought. He's hard enough to not care.

The sudden sharp intake of breath from his side means probably means Blaine’s awake. Staring into the same mirror and all the while hating himself for it.

“What is the map,” Rachel says from behind, trying to get her hands through the shirt, words running into each other, “on the picture.”

It’s sad he knows what she means. And by sad he means lame, obviously.

“It’s a tattoo of Virginia,” he says, gripping the steering wheel tighter because it feels like he’s giving something up, for some reason. Like she— both of them already have too many parts of him already and soon he’s not going to be left with enough to make a working whole, “where I was born.”

“I want to,” she stops, presumably trying to get her words in order, “touch. Wanted to, then.”

He takes a deep, shaking breath, and before he can answer, she’s snaked her hand under his soaked shirt.

His heart slams in his chest.

Cold. Her hand’s just as cold as his skin, just as wet, and it burns through.

“Rachel,” Blaine puts his hand out as well, presumably to push hers away, but she just entwines her hand with his, both of them against his skin, till his muscles clench to the point of pain. Because this—

— isn’t fucking  _fair_.

It’s a long moment. Longer than a moment has the right to be. It takes him a while to realize he’s stopped the car in the middle of the road.

She finally lets her hand drop; head banging against the window again, “can’t tell…feel anything actually.”

“I’ll show it to you later,” he says, starting the car, so maybe she wouldn’t hear him over the sound of the engine and he’ll get to pretend he never said it. It’s something like a promise. Letting go. Or holding on. She’s making him mix his metaphors.  
  
He drives them home instead of dumping them in some backalley, because that’s apparently how whipped he is now. And when he looks up, he can see Blaine out of the corner of his eye, unmoving, back ramrod straight, blindly staring out the window at the rain.  
  
Halfway through, she sleepily starts humming  _The Way We Were_ under her breath _._  
  
The radio is silent.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_Sebastian_

_Thank you._

_Rachel_

His shirt is freshly washed and meticulously pressed. And when he buries his face in it and inhales, he can’t smell anything except the detergent.

(— technically that was where it should’ve ended, he knows. Because that’s what really works on Broadway. Tragedy. And he’s pretty fucking tragic.)  
  
  
  
  
  


But it goes something like this instead:

 _I wush I cud. I wish i couldd._ Blaine texts, obviously desperately drunk again. Because that's the only way it'd ever be even the remotest possibility.

There's a moment where he thinks it could be him. That he's the one at the other end of the wishing.

But then he remembers Blaine's clenched fist and her shiny hair and—

See, he's always been a liar— it's like his profession— but he isn’t stupid.

So what he has come to realize is this:

He's stupid.

And that’s the understatement of the year.

Because  _he_  can. He always could. And he's been too much of a coward to admit it.

  
  
  
  
  
  


So this is how it actually ends—

(— or begins. Or maybe it’s the middle. He lost his cues somewhere through the first half of the first act and he’s kind of been winging it since so it’s appropriate that he  _at_ her terrible public school and leaning her against her own piano and it’s tongues and teeth and  _I want you_  and  _oh god, yes_. Like something sliding into place.)

“We’re not singing,” she says accusingly, pulling back, slightly breathless, “and we’re not drunk. And I thought you were gay,” confusion lines her forehead.

He thinks about lying for a moment, using the words bicurious or bisexual or something. Neatly slotting himself in the biggest pigeonhole around so he'll have room enough for all of it; her and Blaine’s eye patch and the guy he thought he was.

"Not when it comes to you," he says before he's realized he's said anything at all. And fuck, that's the cheesiest thing he's ever said; he should start singing  _You Are The Only Exception_  in a high falsetto to complete the lameness of the scene.  _Jesus_.

She doesn't register the excruciatingly high dork-factor of course; it's probably so tame compared to her own theatrics as to not be anything more than a passing blip on her diva radar. He'd probably need a boombox and a Peter Gabriel song to so much as warrant a head-turn.

Instead, she looks at him long and hard, face carefully blank so he can't read it, even though he has her expressions memorized because, hey, competition.

"I don't know what I'm doing." she informs him solemnly. Well, good, because he'd hate to be the only one without a clue here. Not knowing why it’s so easy to want when it’s her.

"But," she continues, the fire back in her eyes, "whatever it turns out to be, it'd probably be songwriting gold, considering you're the enemy. And mostly gay. I've kissed the enemy before and I've kissed a gay guy before. But not together. It'd be an excellent addition to my repertoire of life experiences all meticulously documented in the folder labeled 'Life Experiences' on my computer's hard-drive. I'm sure even Patti LuPone—”

He doesn’t point out that they’ve kissed before because  _fuck_ , she has a folder labeled 'Life Experiences' on her hard-drive.

And that, more than anything else, has him reaching out, hands clumsy with need, pulling her back in before she can get all the words out.

Her mouth is hot and wet and soft. And he thinks something stupid about how she tastes like— like cherry chapstick, yes, because that’s the semi-recognizable flavor at the tip of his tongue, but also— like Broadway. She tastes like she sings.

And it isn't the right metaphor, it isn't a metaphor at all, but she’s kissing him back and he has time. For mistakes or discoveries. Whatever. And for the moment—

—that's enough.

  
  
  
  
  
  


(He remembers the dramatic flourishes of his Parisian drama coach. Spending lazy days on end making fun of his accent. But mostly:

“It is all about the narrative ma chère. No story really ends at curtain call. They’re faux dénouements. Fake endings. The only real end is where everyone dies. The other endings are just where you decide to stop telling.”)  
  


He has her on the piano, his hand under her skirt, when Blaine walks in ten minutes later, abruptly stopping short.

"Rachel," he says, voice unusually quiet. Or maybe he can’t hear him over the haze of arousal because he's wanted this since—

— too long. Longer than he'll admit. Even in a private audience comprising himself.

She jumps off immediately, with a high sound at the back of her throat, that makes him harder than he already is, and if he was in a state to think at all, maybe he'd be embarrassed by it.

"I know what you're thinking," she says, "and I swear I totally know what I'm doing. He's like—a distraction, if you will. I promise I won't get my heart broken. Which would be an academic impossibility anyway because I don't love him. Obviously."

She's stealing his words he knows.

"I just," Blaine stops and he thinks she must be blind if she can't tell just by the unnatural curve of his mouth, his eyes. Even he can. Always could. "Kurt told me you were staying back so I waited. To see if you wanted a ride back. I didn't know--"

"God no," she says, obviously still flustered, "I mean of course, I'll come. Not 'come' in...that way, of course. Not that you interrupted — I mean, to the car, I'm just—," she makes a show of brushing her skirt and smiles, even if it's glassier than usual, a little off-center. "Let's go."

He meets Blaine's eyes over Rachel's head and thinks something like  _I wish I could_. Wonders if the other boy's already deleted it from his phone. Like not seeing it would mean it never happened. Like there was no lapse. No maybe. No  _what if._

He can hear her giggle as she links her arm with Blaine's, talk about how she's living up to their  _West Side Story_ pact of experiencing in the moment.

Knows he'll see her again. Touch her again. Even if he's almost ready to beg on his knees, and she's just experimenting with the academic possibility for musical insipiration. Even if for a little while he can ease that constant ache in his gut, just stop just  _wanting_  so hard and actually  _have_ for once.

The guy ahead of him trying desperately to not hold her too close won't, though.

So, maybe—

maybe it was a Broadway tragedy after all. It's just that he chose the wrong point of view— it wasn't his story to tell.

He shrugs on his blazer and follows them out of the practice room door.

 


End file.
